Hope for the Future
by ZAPBETH
Summary: A series of vignettes about different characters on Christmas.
1. Fred Weasley

I figured that I would buy into the whole Christmas thing and write a set of Christmas vignettes featuring different characters during their experiences in Deathly Hallows. There will be 24 of these with the last one being posted on Christmas Eve. I'm not entirely happy with this one, but in the order of things, it fit best here. The title comes from the quote written underneath.

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"What is Christmas? It is tenderness for the past, courage for the present, hope for the future. It is a fervent wish that every cup may overflow with blessings rich and eternal, and that every path may lead to peace." **- Agnes M. Pharo**

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It was an odd Christmas Eve with the family splintered. Percy was off in his big-headedness, and Ron was off in his mad adventure with Harry and Hermione. Bill and Fleur had decided to spend Christmas alone as a married couple. The Burrow felt emptier than usual, even if six people were currently listening to the Christmas special on the radio.

Fred leaned slightly to his side and caught a glimpse of his mother staring forlornly at the radio. He knew that the events of the past six months had struck her particularly hard, but he couldn't bring comfort to the surface of the atmosphere.

He laughed as, at a commercial, George launched into a ridiculous rendition of "O Holy Night," which included numerous references to ears. Fred joined in as well, inventing new lyrics to old Christmas carols. Ginny applauded their efforts until Mrs Weasley shushed them as the singing of Warbeck resumed on the radio.

"Ah, but Mum," Fred complained of her shushing, "George is just so full of the Christmas spirit. He just might burst from enthusiasm."

"Actually, Fred," George continued. "Not even You-Know-Who could kill it. It might be the only way to finish him off."

"Or that might be Harry."

"But probably Christmas spirit."

"Yeah. After all, what does a scrawny git who leads impressionable Hermione and gullible Ron astray have on a bloke's eagerness to open gifts?"

Mrs. Weasley teared up at the mention of Ron's name, and Fred knew that his joke had the opposite effect than desired.


	2. Luna Lovegood

It was lucky that Mr. Ollivander was in the cellar with her. Otherwise it won't have felt much like Christmas at all. Luna and her father had always spent the day together, sipping on Guddyroot infusions and looking through the articles for the next Quibbler. But this year, she wouldn't be spending it with her father in their rook-shaped house, but rather with Mr. Ollivander in the dark cellar of Malfoy Manor.

When she told him that it was most likely Christmas (she hadn't yet lost count of the hours and days), he was distant and lain back down onto the cool stone floor. There was something tragic about the pair-the old man sad to have yet another holiday pass without freedom and the young girl seemingly unable to be downtrodden.

"Tell me, dear Luna," Mr. Ollivander said to her, his voice coming out of the darkness. "Do you believe that you will escape from here?" His voice trembled with weakness and the need for reassurance.

"Well, of course," Luna said simply. "They would never forget about me."

Mr. Ollivander sighed, quietly enough that she could not hear. Perhaps her childlike naivety would pull her through this ordeal, but he had no delusions of the same for himself. His childish days were over.


	3. Peter Pettigrew

Peter Pettigrew never meant to end up as a servant or as a jail keeper. He had once fooled Albus Dumbledore in the terms of loyalty; he had helped the Dark Lord to rise again and inhabit his new body. He had cut off his own toe to evade capture and probable death. And what of all those feats now? After all the bravery and courage it took to accomplish those things, he was in charge of keeping two prisoners quiet.

Christmas came and went without more than a few moments of reflection. There had been a moment when the Dark Lord had divulged the story of Potter's escape at Godric's Hollow. Pettigrew was pulled back to the cozy home and the warmth of friends as the Marauders had once roared with laughter at baby Harry's antics. At that instance, a bubbling thing like shame had risen up in the pit of his stomach, but he pushed it back down into a state of remission as it had been trapped for years.


	4. Madam Pomfrey

This Christmas Eve was barren. Many students had returned home from the tyranny that had been imposed at Hogwarts. Madam Pomfrey sat alone in her office, musing about how even if the Hospital Wing was empty at the moment, the students, whether present or not, were hurting from the wounds inflicted by those Death Eaters. As she thought about the presence of those villainous murderers here in her beloved school as well as home, her hands tightened their grip on the edges of her desk.

Unable to just sit there and do nothing, she quickly returned to the Hospital Wing and began to organize the bottles of medical remedies. She was unable to escape from thoughts of the regime at Hogwarts because the dwindling supplied just pointed it out in starker detail. Pain-relieving and dreamless sleep potions were the ones that she had to begin to ration, which went against her basic instincts about how to treat her patients.

The Hospital Wing was clean, nearly spotless, as it was necessary for it to be, but Madam Pomfrey felt that no matter how hard she or the house elves scrubbed, it would not be completely again ever again. The fact that she had healed vicious injuries and then sent those students back out just to be injured again had tainted her place of work, but it was her duty to keep cycling around and around.

Madam sighed and then almost wished that she had a patient to pull her out of these thoughts.


	5. Dudley Dursley

Vernon Dursley was sitting morosely in a comfortable armchair, and beside him on the couch were lounging his wife and son. The atmosphere was not quite relaxed, and the air of festivity that usually hung around the family was diminished this year. Dedalus had left them for the night, and Hestia was in the other room. Dudley, who had almost settled into this new style of life, was the only one in his small family that did not look with disdain at the magical objects that were left around the house. Petunia seemed to be focused on the wizarding paper that was laying on the side table.

Perhaps it was his experience with the Dementors two years ago that had changed his horrid attitude toward most things wizard or just his attitude toward his cousin. Maybe it was the fact that same cousin was now fighting evil when the rest of his world seemed to be running away in terror. But Dudley could not help but feel mildly curious about it all, rather than frightened. It amused him to see the moving pictures in the paper, even if the words read grim news.

It was a downsized Christmas this year. Their little squat tree in the corner did nothing to rival the massive one that had regularly been a feature at Privet Drive, and the gifts given were not nearly as opulent as the ones to which he was accustomed.

Dudley sat on the couch, staring at the things that were new to him, and it didn't seem to him anymore that they needed the huge decorations or presents.


	6. Kreacher

The Black House had been gutted. Yaxley had brought in Death Eater after Death Eater to search the place for any hints of where Harry, Ron, and Hermione were headed or what their plans were. Kreacher had hid from them, knowing from the fact that the trio had not returned, that something had gone very wrong. The Death Eaters had sacked the place and taken what they wanted, and only Kreacher was there to witness the travesty.

This Christmas Eve was much like the ones from years past. Kreacher was the only one left in the lonely house that was now completely barren of all its former treasures. What Mundungus had begun after the death of Sirius, the Death Eaters had finished. He mourned the loss of yet another Master who had seemed to care for the house elf.

Kreacher sat in his little cupboard that was more clean than it had been since before the death of Mrs. Black. He had gone busily through his now-daily routine of dusting and cleaning the house, attempting to keep inhabitable just in case the three young wizards returned to the home at Grimmauld Place. Every surface that was remaining was polished, and every light had been dusted. This transformation of number 12 He had then sunken down like a defeated rag doll into the nest of blankets and rags to spend the rest of the joyous day alone.


	7. Minerva McGonagall

Minerva McGonagall was not pleased. She had spent the last four months being as little pleased as she ever had in her whole career of education. It was not the quality of the work exhibited by her students that was the matter but the manner in which the school was run. Every time she looked upon Severus Snape, whether at mealtimes or when she was summoned to a head of House meeting, her lips would purse and become nearly white. Every time she looked upon the siblings Carrow, her eyes would narrow to almost a point, and she could not control the disdainful look from coming across her face.

This Christmas feast, when the Great Hall was practically empty, Professor McGonagall could not help but list the differences between the current headmaster and the greatest one that Hogwarts had ever seen. This man, a bat disguised as a human being, had so betrayed the Order's trust that his presence here afterward was like rubbing it constantly in their faces. This man, whom she had highly regarded as a fine potions master and respected as a head of House, was the antithesis of what Dumbledore had been to the school. Dumbledore's murderer had succeeded him on the headmaster's chair of honor.

Snape sat glumly in his place of honor, and McGonagall could only look with disdain upon this. She had decided to remain at the school to protect the students here, but it was such a trial with the enemy sitting beside her. The few students that had stayed behind for the Christmas break mainly kept to themselves, and there was no mingling of the staff and students. The teachers were placed up high, and the unworthy Carrows held seats that had been the chairs of much better men.

After the meal was over, McGonagall rose almost immediately and left the Hall. It had felt like Azkaban in there, devoid of emotion and hopeless.


	8. Remus Lupin

It was the happiest Christmas in which Remus Lupin had taken part in years. There was the little family that was starting to grow up around him. Tonks was brilliantly happy that Remus had rejoined her at Andromeda's house, and she could not help looking over her shoulder to smile at him. Her baby bump had become more obvious, and Remus had trouble looking away from it, mildly taken aback from the amount the baby had grown in the time they had been apart. The feeling of belonging, not just to a fighting group but to a family, was something that he treasured more than any of the gifts that Tonks and her mother had given him.

It was the first Christmas since Halloween years ago that he had not been trapped in thoughts of the fellow Marauders and their absence from his life. Before, he kept thinking of the years and the Christmases that they could not be with them and how much he missed his true friends. They had made his life worthwhile and not condemned it to be a life of woe and attempting to hide his secret. In years past, he had thought of Harry, who would never remember the warmth and love of his parents at Christmas. It seemed to him to be such a tragedy that a person so young could not know the feeling of spending that day with his parents.

But this year... he was only driven out of the morose thoughts by her smile and the sense of family that he almost thought he could never deserve. He took every opportunity he could to kiss his wife, who beamed with pleasure every time he did so. It was the happiest Christmas, and those doubts and worries that he had had in those lost four months seemed to vanish before the Christmas lights and carols. There was no regret in his decision to return to his wife and his unborn child.

It was the first time he had been truly happy in years.


	9. Fat Lady

The Fat Lady hung on the wall all Christmas day, waiting for the password that never came, waiting for students that were not present. It was almost a relief not to be forced to say the same "Password?" at every approaching person, and she could lounge casually in her portrait, relaxing.

There was no complete relaxation in Hogwarts anymore. The Fat Lady had seen too many injuries that would have been too eagerly explained away with a wave of the hand if she had bothered to ask. She had asked around the castle, though, and the students entering through her portrait hole were always the ones with the worst injuries. She had a certain pride in their being Gryffindors and their civil disobedience, just as all the portraits did of the things they hid from sight. All the information she learned about the goings-on at Hogwarts had passed through numerous ears and had the ring of second- and third-hand sources.

At the present moment, the Fat Lady wished she was not a portrait, though. She felt so detached from the world, high on the wall above it. She was only an observer, never a participator, though the one time that she had participated in the exciting events around the school landed her in shreds. She wished that she could go and visit her portrait friend Violet, but she was forced to stay here in her portrait for at least a while later. She was dependent on the students for giving her something to do.

She could not even really help in a time of crisis, like something that had happened in the June of the last year. She could only cheer on the protectors of the castle, and she felt now that she did not have much of a purpose.


	10. Dolores Umbridge

Dolores Umbridge was content. Her Muggleborn Registration Commission brainchild had been successful in retrieving more and more stolen wands each day. She had never been quite so influential at the Ministry of Magic, and she liked where she stood in her role of judging those quivering Mudbloods beneath her, unable to feel the warmth of her Patronus. There had only been a few setbacks, such as that nasty Potter kid and his accomplices had taken her locket from around her very neck, but they were cancelled out by the rousing success of her other programs.

Dolores sat in her favorite chair in her charmingly petite sitting room, her bow jauntily perched on the top of her head. She sipped a cup of tea while listening to the Ministry-approved news. She smirked as she heard a story that had been watered down to the point of offering only ignorance. The kittens on the decorative plates that were hung with care around the room padded noiselessly.

She immensely enjoyed having the ability and position to know explicitly what the announcer on the radio was not allowed to release to his anxious audience. She enjoyed that she could help choose what was censored or perhaps completely replaced. As she listened to the stories that were devoid of any mention of Dark activities and used the euphemisms of "disappearances" and "mysterious absences" to explain away murders, the tea was not the only thing giving Dolores warmth.

When the announcer recited facts, which sounded as if they were read directly off one of her pamphlets about the inherent inferiority of those descended from Muggles, she sat up even straighter like she had been jerked upward by her puppet strings. It was a truly terrific Christmas gift to hear the impact she was having on the wizarding community, to hear her work being preached as it should.

Perhaps, Dolores mused to herself as she took another sip from her teacup, this warmth that was residing in the bottom of her stomach was that spirit of Christmas of which she had always heard. It was something more than just mere pride, which could not quite define the sensation, but this mythical spirit of Christmas might just offer the explanation. After all, she had always heard it was better to give than to receive.


	11. Horace Slughorn

Horace Slughorn was sitting behind his desk in his office and was nibbling on a piece of crystalized pineapple. He had just returned from the very frosty Christmas feast that had felt as though a blizzard could not have diminished the heat of Minerva McGonagall's glare.

This year had been very different than the others ones he had spent at Hogwarts. It had become impossible to maintain a state of neutrality when selecting which students possessed the air and abilities of potential. Horace decided that instead of angering either the established professors or the Death Eaters in charge of the school, he would rather give up some of his influence than his life. Due to the official disbanding of the Slug Club, there had been no Christmas party filled with influential people with whom to mingle. It was a challenge, keeping that delicate balance, but he believed he had toed the line impressively. Luckily, he had not yet been asked to choose between the conflicting factions.

Picking up another slice of pineapple, his other hand fiddled with his quill. There was a piece of parchment lying on the dark wood of his desk, waiting patiently to be written on. The words, however, did not come easily to Horace. This letter that he had been contemplating composing and submitting to the headmaster had remained unwritten for months. Horace could not force out the words, and he knew that those statements would remain trapped in his mind until he could tolerate no more. There was not an immediate all to resign yet and give up the rest of his very deserved comforts. There was no need for him to resort to going on the run again.

Horace Slughorn dusted the sugar from off his fingertips and took a sip from the glass of wine resting on his desk. Then he stiffened his resolution to remain until the last moment that neutrality would be allowed. He opened a drawer and hid his parchment and quill away.


	12. Percy Weasley

Percy Weasley had always been a part of the large family, and with that upbringing, he was not used to being alone on important days. He was surprised when on Christmas Eve, he recalled that this was the third year in a row that he had been alone for the celebration. After this realization, he was even more aware of the solitary involved in all his actions. When he filled the teapot with water, he only added enough water for two cups of tea for himself. When he made his dinner that night, there was only one serving. When he went to sit on the sofa in his sitting room, he was all alone, no joking brothers in the background, no shouts or scoldings. Just him.

It was not as though he had not been aware that he was alone on the previous Christmases spent in this flat, but he had never felt the emptiness of it as acutely as he did that night. As he watched the snow flurrying outside of his window, he thought about how he could even begin to rectify the situation between himself and his family. His absence had left a gulf of discomfort, and he wondered if he could ever swim the distance.

More and more, he had been musing about how his life would have gone if he had remained with his family instead of choosing to focus solely on his career and placing his trust entirely in the Ministry of Magic to do what was right. Now that the Ministry of Magic was undeniably corrupt and evil, Percy imagined himself going back in time and erasing all the regret with which his choices had rewarded him. There was no way for him to traverse that great expanse now, though, and Percy was not sure that he wanted the inevitable smack of "I told you so" in the face.

So when he climbed into bed that night-not even bothering to be excited for the next morning, which held no promises of Christmas gifts or the delicious family dinner-he was alone, and not even in his dreams did his family return to him.


	13. Gilderoy Lockhart

"Gilderoy, dear, it's too late to be still up," the attendant said quietly to the man busily at work, signing his name again and again in his script that improved very little. "You don't want to wake the other patients, do you? Put the quill away, and try to get some sleep. Tomorrow is Christmas."

"Yes, yes, I know," Gilderoy Lockhart responded wearily as though he had had this conversation with her numerous times, "but I have to finish these. My fans would be so pleased if on Christmas Day, they received an autographed picture of me!"

The attendant looked at him pleasantly and said, "All right, but you ought to get to sleep after just a few more. Your fans will be glad no matter what day they receive their pictures."

Gilderoy Lockhart bent down to refocus on his work. His signature looked as if a 10-year-old boy who was just beginning to learn to write in cursive had gotten ahold of the glossy, moving pictures of the man smiling his trademark grin broadly. His time spent in the Closed Ward had improved his condition little, just to the point where he now remembered why there were so many adoring fans of his. Before this, he had only been certain of the fact that the letters he got in the post begged for them. However, with this small improvement, his arrogance had risen immensely, and he would stay up all night, attempting to sign every one of the photographs with which he had been supplied.

After he had finished with ten or so of the autographs, he placed them with reverence on his bedside table, along with his fancy quill and bottle of ink. And the last thing he saw on the inside of his eyes before he fell into a deep slumber on a cold winter's night was his own beaming face.


	14. Rita Skeeter

A copy of The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore sat high on the mantle, given the position of honor like one would give their most treasured picture. Rita Skeeter looked up from her visitor on this Christmas Eve and grinned at her masterpiece-the gold lettering that proclaimed her name and the weary-looking photograph of Albus Dumbledore.

"Well, thank you for granting me this interview on Christmas Eve," the reporter said, drawing her attention back to him.

"It's no problem," Rita said with a grin, her hand stretching out to force a teacup into his hand.

"What are your future plans?" the reporter asked after gingerly placing the cup on a side table and checking that his Quick-Quotes Quill was properly transcribing what was being said. "Any more delicious exposees in progress?"

"Oh, I don't know," Rita responded, waiting a reflective second. "I worked so very intensely for the last book, and I consider it to be possibly the masterpiece of my career. I might just take a well-deserved holiday for a bit." She poured another cup of tea for herself and then looked pleasantly back up t the man sitting in one of her armchairs.

"On the subject of your masterpiece," he continued, "there has been some controversy about the truthfulness of it, possibly in response to the sheer number of accusations you pour on the late Dumbledore. How do you respond to the people saying that you fabricated parts of the book just for profit?"

"Well, I'd say that those people don't have the sources I had while writing the book," she replied. "All this ruckus comes out of the belief that Albus Dumbledore was a saint, and honestly they needed to be enlightened about the faults of Hogwarts' so-called most beloved headmaster."

"There was the one subject that dumbfounded readers so much: the supposed friendship between Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald. In particular, it is the thing that caused the most outrage in the public. What do you say to those in doubt?"

Rita looked at him for a moment before launching into her reply. "There are photographs of them together. You can't forge that."

"Very well. Thank you for taking time out of a day reserved for family to do this short interview."

"Oh, my pleasure."

Afterward, the two cups of cold tea sat in the same places as Rita Skeeter opened the paper on Christmas mornig and smiled when she saw the article.


	15. Rubeus Hagrid

Hagrid sat beside his large table in his exceptionally large house, and his large heart was filled to the brim with concern for his missing friends and dead heroes. Dumbledore's death had struck him particularly hard, and it did not help that Hogwarts had changed significantly in his absence. It had been a difficult adjustment for Hagrid to bear, but he had pulled through well. He was having his tea on this Christmas eve with Fang lying next to his feet.

It had been odd not to set up the twelve Christmas trees this year, and it had not really felt like Christmas was approaching without shopping for gifts. His eyes teared up at the thought of Harry, Ron, and Hermione wandering on their own, and they only increased their volume when he remembered the white tomb sitting next to the lake. At these thoughts, his heart turned hard when his mind wandered to the murderer, the man who sat in Dumbledore's chair in the Great Hall.

Hagrid's hand stretched down to stretch Fang's head and behind his ears. He rose from his table and ambled over to the stove where the tea kettle was whistling. He poured himself a cup of tea and set it down on the table. Hagrid's eyes to the window and wondered how Grawp was feeling and what he was doing at this moment. After all, it was Christmas Eve, and he probably should go visit him and show him the gift he had prepared for his half-brother. He had a duty to look after his brother and his friends.

He took a sip of the tea, and slowly the wheels in his head started turning. He had a duty to his friends and those who had always been kind to him. Hagrid began to develop an idea, and it was the only way he knew of to show his support for the Boy Who Lived.


	16. Oliver Wood

It felt amazing to feel the wind slice through his hair, and even though the cold has not hampered at all by his robes, Oliver Wood could not convince himself to perform a heating spell on himself. It felt like a kind of repentance, to be doing what he had loved since he was five years old but freezing in the act. There had been no practice scheduled for the day, considering it was Christmas Eve, but when he had woken up that morning, Oliver had felt the desire to just fly and not worry if a Quaffle was roaring toward him and the hoops.

Thoughts had been springing up in his mind for weeks now, and he thought that this afternoon broomstick ride would ease some of the guilt he felt before he was expected to go to his parents' house for the evening. The pressure to abandon his lifestyle that revolved around only Quidditch had tightened over his chest ever since the stories of his former classmates risking their lives for the fight had become ever more present as the days passed. He was soaring through the skies, doing the only thing around which he had dreamed of founding his life, while Harry, practically still a boy and four years younger than Oliver, was on the run and headlining the rebellion.

His feet skimmed the grass, and he tumbled out of the air. He quickly grabbed the broom, tucking it under his arm, and he begun to walk across the pitch towards the locker rooms. The cold had seeped into his bones, and he was eager to wash it all away under the stream of the shower. But he knew that even if the warmth turned his legs to bright red splotches, it could not wash away the guilt he felt.


	17. Draco Malfoy

Home did not feel like home, and Christmas did not feel like Christmas this year. As Draco Malfoy walked through the mansion that he had once felt so comfortable in and had thought of as sanctuary, he felt as though his every step was being watched. There was an omnipresent feel to the way that the Dark Lord had invaded their home, as if they were continually being supervised. Half of the time, Draco wanted to smash his way out of the gloomy situation in which he and his family found themselves, and the other half, he was convinced that if he just blended into the background, it would eventually get better.

There was no safety from the menace that came along with the Death Eaters' presence in the mansion. The Christmas decorations that had been a part of his childhood did nothing to bring any cheer to the house, and the Christmas tree that was in the center of the sitting room felt as out of place as a Slytherin in Dumbledore's Army.


End file.
